


All is Fair in Love

by Captain_Panda



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Carnival, Carnivals, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Romantic Fluff, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Team as Family, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28950369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: The traveling carnival is finally here!You know what that means: sweet treats, sweet prizes, and especially, sweet rides!(Or maybe just sweet boyfriend Steve indulging his favorite gremlin for a very leisurely afternoon at the fair.)
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	All is Fair in Love

**Author's Note:**

> It's very late and I'm a bit tired, but this fic represents a very special milestone for me: it crosses the 1,000,000th word mark (for this fandom!).
> 
> That's right: in 18 months (June 2019-January 2021), I have written 1,000,000 words for the Avengers fandom. I am beyond delighted.
> 
> Fluff pieces like this offer me a lot of peace, so I'm glad I was able to rub a few brain cells together to make it happen.
> 
> Also, shoutout to picturecat, who has been leaving me the most wonderful comments to lift my spirits. I cannot express in words how much it brings me joy to know my fics do the same, and it was that series of comments in particular that inspired me to pick up the so-called pen again. So, if you happen to see this, picturecat--I sincerely hope you enjoy!
> 
> And thank you, one and all, for welcoming me into this fandom. It's been quite a rollercoaster ride, but, hey, that's what this fic is all about, and I'm quite tickled with it, so there's hope for the future! <3
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> Captain Panda

“Step right up, Hercules! Muscles like those can’t be for show!”

Steve would have kept walking past the carnie and his _Test Your Strength!_ booth, but Tony had other plans.

“Even Clint can’t hit the top,” Tony told Steve, trading cash for sledgehammer. He held the hammer out to Steve. “What say you?”

Steve sighed. Then he began rolling up his sleeves. The carnie crowed, “C’mon, Hercules, give ‘em a show!” The carnival was already packed to its upper limits, and the gaggle of gawkers clustered around their booth represented a mere fraction of the total population. Still, it was enough of a crowd that there were wolf whistles as he reached out and took the hammer. Tony melted back a couple steps, and Steve stepped right up to plate.

 _Easy_ , he thought, tuning out the noises of the fair as he sized up his target. He could not break the machine on the first try. He swung the hammer back and brought it down as firmly as he dared.

The light-up marker jumped up about halfway. The carnie egged him on: “C’mon, Hercules, you can do better than that, I know you can!”

 _Easy_ , Steve repeated, willing himself not to give into temptation and give the man what he wanted. He swung the hammer again, and this time, he felt the weight of the contact, a real blow that would’ve done terrible damage to any mortal object. The red light zinged to the top, and the carnie howled, “And we have a WINNER! Can he do it, two-to-one?”

Of course he could, Steve thought, heart beating with relief. But he didn’t try, instead turning to Tony, who was recording the whole thing, and held out the hammer. Tony lifted both eyebrows, then pocketed his phone and stepped up to plate. 

“New ringer, folks, we got a new ringer, c’mon, bring it in,” the carnie said, switching gears. “Take us home!”

Steve stepped out of the way, glad to revert to his traditional stance as a spectator. Tony did a practice swing that fooled both crowd and carnie, who crowed, “Big money, big money, bring it in—oh!” Then Tony pulled back, set the hammer down, and made a show of gesturing the carnie closer, pulling out his wallet, and presenting him with a crisp twenty-dollar-bill. The carnie grinned, pocketed the bill, and disappeared around the back of the booth.

Then he returned with an inflatable hammer. Reveling in the turn of events, the carnie presented the toy hammer to the crowd, then handed it over to Tony, who offered the real sledgehammer in return. The carnie then pretended to struggle with the real sledgehammer while Tony hoisted the mighty toy aloft.

Steve said, “C’mon, Tony,” just as Tony brought the toy down on the platform. The red marker light zinged to the top.

“KING KONG, EVERYBODY!” the carnie roared.

King Kong passed his hammer back with a triumphant little smile. When the carnie offered his pick of the prize wall, Tony just shook his head.

Then, in a sleight of hand even a carnie would be proud of, Tony got hand sanitizer all over Steve’s palm. Steve bristled, “ _Tony_ , you _know_ I don’t like—” but dutifully rubbed the cold gel into his skin until it evaporated.

Tony just said, “Constant vigilance,” before tugging him away.

. o .

As a peace offering, Tony bought him an entire bucket of crunchy chocolate chip cookies.

Steve almost could not believe his eyes when Tony handed over three months’ rent in exchange for an entire _bucket_ of cookies, piping hot and fresh outta the oven. They weren’t the only fairgoers eager to try the ultimate indulgence, but all Steve’s exasperation with the long line evaporated the moment he took his first bite of warm, gooey cookie.

The cotton candy lights dimmed; the shrieking jubilation quieted. If a man in a gorilla suit ran past him, Steve might not have noticed. All his attention was focused on his own private bounty. He could hardly believe it was _his_.

He didn’t even begrudge Tony for sneaking a few cookies off the top. No one person could eat them all in one go.

That was exactly what he thought as he scraped along the bottom of the bucket, seemingly seconds later.

Tony asked, “You wanna get another?”

It was very difficult to say no, but Steve shook his head, anyway. The lights, camera, action of the fairgrounds seemed to press on him from all sides, and he knew he’d only court a miserable evening if he overdid it this early on.

“I’m good,” he said, which was almost true. He was a bit out of sorts—the lights, camera, action seemed quite a bit _louder_ than it had even twenty minutes ago, making it hard to think, but that was his own private difficulty, not Tony’s. Tony had come to have a good time, and Steve had agreed to it. He would not be the one to drag them both down.

Besides—he’d liked the carnival, once upon a time. It remained one of the happiest memories he had—although he remembered the two-hour sojourn on the back of a tractor better than the carnival itself. The two skunk-drunk drivers, who had kindly allowed him and Bucky to join them on their way to the fair, had fallen off their own ride so many times Steve could barely breathe for laughter. That sort of experience couldn’t be bought or manufactured, he reflected affectionately, disposing the plastic bucket in a nearby trash bin.

“Should we find the rug-rats?” Tony asked, which seemed reasonable enough.

Steve—sighed. Tony lifted both eyebrows, but Steve said, “Yeah,” and meant it.

. o .

“Holy, mother, fu—” Clint tripped off the last step of the exit platform and crashed into Steve. Bruce, looking green, stumbled after him, nearly faceplanting in the grass. Natasha sauntered over from the sidelines. She alone looked satisfied.

“Never again,” Bruce whimpered, gripping the metal railing for dear life, inching towards the safety of the grass. “Never—”

“Gonna puke,” Clint announced, pushing away from Steve and stumbling over to the nearest trash bin, one arm around his stomach, the other hand pressed to his mouth.

Tony scrunched up his nose, said, “Well, aren’t you three just a barrel full of monk—” He sighed as Bruce did, in fact, trip over the final step and faceplant in the grass. “Steve, help him.”

“I think he’s happier down there,” Steve deadpanned, but he stepped forward and tugged the good doctor to his feet. “Y’all right?”

Still faintly green, Bruce nodded, then shook his head quickly, indicating in a breathless, _make-it-fast_ voice, “Put me down. Put me down.” Steve obliged, keeping one hand on Bruce’s shoulder. In the too-near distance, Clint retched. Steve scrunched up his nose.

“I’ll Tase Clint if you ride it,” Natasha offered suddenly.

Steve was about to say, _Positive punishment is not a reward_ , but Tony said, “I do want to see that.”

“Tony, you can’t,” Steve said. Tony looked at him with an expression that was so abundantly _why ever not?_ Steve had to resist the urge to cuff him gently on the back of the head. Luckily, he was still crouched by the good doctor, who had no apparent intention of getting up anytime soon. “You—” Steve gestured eloquently at his own chest.

Tony looked down at the hidden arc reactor, then said, “Huh. Gee. Too bad.”

“I’m ready,” Clint husked out, leaning a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Round two.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Tony encouraged, shooing Clint towards the ride entrance.

Steve said, “Tony, don’t—” and straightened to recapture Clint before he could do something stupid, like ride the stupid ride _again_.

. o .

Fun fact: the Loop-o-Plane, one of the earliest modern pendulum rides, debuted in 1933. Given that it appeared in Salem, Oregon, Stevie Rogers, a thirteen-year-old Brooklynite, never had an opportunity to ride it.

Could not say he was missing out, he thought, grimly sitting next to Clint. From the ground, Tony whistled at them, waving enthusiastically, while Bruce had taken to gripping Tony’s legs for support, apparently unable to stand. Natasha had her phone up, evidently recording them. What she got out of it was a mystery, Steve decided, and then sighed deeply as the ride began to swing baaaack and foooorth.

“You know I don’t get motion sick anymore, right?” he told Clint. Despite his own words, he _remembered_ motion sickness. It was hard to divorce sense memory from grounded reality, and a part of him clamored to be free before they achieved maximum altitude.

They achieved maximum altitude. Clint howled in euphoria. Steve hunched down like a prissy porcupine and grunted, “I don’t _like_ it.”

He didn’t like it any better on the second _or_ third revolution. By the sixth turn, he was geared up for an argument with the ride operator, when he noticed their next arc lacked momentum. _Finally_ , he thought, relieved.

To top it all off, Clint elbowed him in the crotch getting off the ride.

Dizzy, disgruntled, and _dissatisfied_ , Steve strode off as straight-backed as he could.

Tony asked cheerfully, “Did you _love_ it?”

“ _I_ _don’t like_ _it_ ,” Steve repeated automatically, just as Clint tripped over poor sweet Bruce and crashed into the grass. Clint and Tony both broke down, Clint into howling hyena laughs, Tony into more muffled but still helpless snickers.

Steve crouched, swept Bruce over one shoulder, and caught Clint by the back of his shirt, ordering, “ _No more_.”

“Ferris wheel,” Tony agreed. “I think Ferris wheel sounds like a great idea.”

Clint laughed helplessly. Natasha and Tony cut a path towards the brightly-lit beacon, and Steve was left to drag and/or carry his two charges.

Grumbling, he dragged Clint across the grass after them, Bruce slung over his shoulder.

. o .

Perhaps the most exasperating thing was, he didn’t even get to ride the Ferris wheel. 

Oh, no—he sat Bruce down on the grass, away from the main flow of traffic, and then took off at a deadly sprint after Clint, who made a break for the nearest deathtrap. The Ferris wheel line was long enough that Clint complained, “We could ride that ride _twice_ before this one,” and somehow slipped out of his grasp a third time.

Wondering why he couldn’t leave well enough alone, Steve stormed over to Bruce, told him firmly, “Don’ move,” and caught up to Clint, who slapped him on the back and told him he was going to _love_ it.

Spoiler alert: he did not _love_ it. 

If anything, he liked the “Zipper” even less than the pendulum ride. At least the pendulum ride had a certain predictability to it—the Zipper was a travesty, designed for maximum seasickness. His saving grace was the teenage ride attendant declaring that the weight limit per ride vehicle was 300 pounds. His downfall was Clint’s remark that they could ride separately.

Good thing, too, Steve thought sourly, as he watched Clint swing his own cage in a 360-degree-arc four times in a row, screeching like a banshee. Steve almost felt bad for the _kids_ on the ride, except they were also screaming, and no matter how little he moved, the cart pinwheeled.

Clint managed 18 full revolutions, by Steve’s best count, before being discharged. Clint then high-fived the ride attendant before crashing over the safety railing onto the grass below, cackling at himself. Steve sighed as he was freed, grabbing Clint by the back of his shirt and hauling him off to the Ferris wheel.

They found Bruce, all right, but Tony and Natasha were nowhere to be seen. “Oh, they left,” Bruce said, having recovered enough to speak, but still looking wobbly. “To get food?”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. Clint said, “Without _us_?”

Bruce nodded, then asked Steve, “Where should we—”

“We wait,” Steve said firmly.

“Nah, I wanna win a giant teddy bear,” Clint declared.

. o .

And that was how they ended up at another carnie game. 

Bruce had agreed to stay put as a place-marker, at least, although Steve wondered what Bruce was getting out of the experience. He wondered what _he_ was getting out of the experience as Clint chucked a basketball at a brightly-colored wall with enough force to send the ball flying back at them. Steve caught it; the carnie crowed, “Nice try!”

“Another round,” Clint declared, waving down the carnie with his money, but Steve said:

“You’re never gonna get it if you keep aiming too low.”

“What’s up?” Clint chucked the ball at the basket with tremendous force. It, too, rebounded violently. This time, Steve held onto it, demonstrating:

“You need it to go _up_ ,” before sinking the basket.

“One in, _wins_!” the carnie cheered, as Clint shook Steve in hearty congratulations. “Pick a prize, any prize!”

“Do it again,” Clint ordered, and Steve thought about what the consequences would be if he refused—namely, Clint taking over—so he sank basket number three. Clint whooped in delight.

“Barton, no,” Steve ordered, as Clint selected _two_ big happy toy monkeys. One was dressed up as Captain America; the other was all green with ripped shorts.

Bruce flinched as Clint chucked the Hulk monkey at him. Steve cuffed Clint on the back of the head—not meanly, not _meanly_ , just pointedly. “ _Ow_ ,” Clint said, but he was still grinning as he hugged his Captain America monkey. “I’m replacing you. _This_ is the new Captain America.”

“Is it, now?”

Tony was back. So was Natasha, picking over the remains of a funnel cake; Clint approached her using the Captain America monkey as a shield.

“Try me,” Natasha told him. Clint deflated, dragging his monkey on the grass by a paw.

Tony snuck a dollop of hand sanitizer onto Steve’s palm. Steve snapped.

. o .

“Cheesecake on a stick?” Tony offered, holding out a stick, his voice barely above a whisper.

Steve sighed. “Look—I’m sorry, Tony,” he apologized. He’d been sitting at a small picnic table with Bruce, sweet, gentle Bruce, beside him, for a while now, at least half an hour. Clint and Natasha had abandoned ship early into his rant, but Tony and Bruce had waited it out, amused and cowed, respectively. It didn’t take that long for Steve to restrain himself—no more than five minutes of good old-fashioned _and another thing_ —but he still felt bad about it. He didn’t like to be a “meathead,” as Tony called it. “I didn’t mean to—did you just say _cheesecake?_ ”

“On a stick,” Tony agreed, still whispering.

Bruce asked, “Why are we whispering?”

Tony replied sibilantly, “ _Because_.”

“Stop it,” Steve snapped.

Bruce cowered.

“I’ll be back,” Tony whispered.

Steve handed Bruce his cheesecake—on a stick. “Be good,” he ordered.

Bruce crossed his heart with one hand, nodding in agreement.

Steve tracked Tony down easily—Tony moved at a brisk clip in the city, avoiding passerby like the plague, but he waltzed around the grassy park area, taking in the sights and sounds with obvious enjoyment. He jumped when Steve wrapped his arms around his waist, then relaxed, murmuring, “Anyone ever tell you you’d make a decent secret agent?”

“What would _you_ like to do?” Steve asked him.

Tony hummed, then shrugged. “Mmm. I’m fine. I just like the—” He waved to indicate the hubbub and fanfare. “I could go for a bite,” he added, amused. “S’dinnertime, right?”

“What, the cheesecake on a stick didn’t do it for ya?” Steve asked dryly.

“Mm. No.” Tony slipped out of his hold, turning to him and squeezing both of his hands. “Come on. Let’s go be _naughty_.”

. o .

Tony Stark’s definition of naughty was a candied apple for dinner. Steve loved him very much.

“Ow,” Steve complained, struggling to find the optimal angle to bite the apple.

“No, babe, you have to—use your _molars_ ,” Tony instructed, taking his apple, easy-as-you-please, and using the side of his mouth to cleave off a small slice. “Oh, wow, that’s—not fresh,” Tony said, with an honest laugh that added several years to Steve’s life. “That’s been sittin’ out for a while,” he added affectionately. He seemed inclined to trash it and try again, but Steve snatched the abandoned apple from midair, insisting:

“S’not _that_ bad, Tony, s’just a little—”

They went back through the line again, Steve nearly breaking a tooth on his treat while Tony chatted about all the other fruits that would make good candied treats. The next apple was almost _dripping_ , it was so fresh. “Much better,” Tony said through a mouthful, offering the superior apple to Steve.

Steve took a bite and a-yup—that was melty, sweet, juicy candy apple.

“For a guy who don’t cook, you got a good sense of good food,” Steve acknowledged.

Tony hip-checked him. “For a Brooklynite, you got a good sense of people.”

“Hey,” Steve said, frowning as Tony reclaimed his apple, then pressed a quick, sticky kiss to his cheek. “Gonna stick to me like a flagpole in the dead’a winter,” he grumbled affectionately.

“Yes, that would be truly awful,” Tony deadpanned, biting into his apple with clear relish.

. o .

They went on some kind of two-story cart ride next, mostly because it was close by and there was no real line to speak of and they were allowed to eat popcorn not only leading up to the ride but _on_ the ride itself. 

“This is how plagues start,” Tony informed him, nodding at the railing while holding onto the popcorn with both hands. Steve made up the difference, keeping one arm on the railing and the other around his sweetheart’s shoulders. “You wanna lick that rail?” Tony went on, tossing back a handful of popcorn. “Be my guest.” Then they whipped around a short corner, spilling an inordinate quantity of popcorn over Steve’s lap. That was Steve’s fault: he was the one in charge of keeping them stabilized. Tony didn’t seem chuffed by it in the least, reaching for another handful of popcorn.

“I don’t know why Barton wanted to ride those big spinner rides when you could just get your thrills here,” Steve said, as their car wheezed and screeched and _little engine that could_ ’ed its way across the rooftop.

“Can’t beat that view,” Tony agreed, speaking loud enough to be heard over the screeching and hawing of the ride vehicle, looking out to his right, beholding the entire carnival.

And hot dog, it was lit up nicely in the darkness, Steve thought. “Damn,” Steve said, and meant to add, _That’s beautiful_ , but they rounded a corner and freewheeled unexpectedly down a twelve-foot drop.

They both laughed, Steve giggling in that _heh-heh_ way that made Clint cry with amusement, while Tony looked at the wreckage of popcorn spilled over them and snickered, “Oops.”

As they rolled up to the docking station, Dennis the teenager didn’t even bat an eyelash at their refusal to vacate their car, cycling them along. Steve managed to shake the rest of the popcorn from the bag into his mouth while Tony gripped Steve’s shirt with both hands, refusing to touch the “plague breeding ground” that was the railing. Folding up his former prize, Steve managed to tuck the entire box into his pocket before they reached the roof.

And man, what a _view_. Tony kept both hands where they were, holding onto Steve’s shirt for dear life, while Steve just looked out across the area and said, “That is _pretty_.” It surprised him, honestly—fairs were a whirlwind, and often a very literal headache, so being able to pause and look at it for what it was worth made him happy. It was better than any fair booth teddy bear, that was for sure. 

He had his own personal teddy bear clinging to him, anyway; and Tony let out a big _ahh!_ as they rolled down the same twelve-foot drop, his bracing hands occupied.

By the third lap, they’d pretty much gotten the hang of it. The sharp, jerky turn didn’t surprise them, and that picture’s-worth-a-thousand-words view was still worth the price of admission. They kept their cool during the final drop, and Steve managed to speed-stuff the spilled popcorn into the bag before they finally undocked.

He chucked the ruined popcorn bag into the nearest trash bin before holding out a hand expectantly. On cue, a cold dollop of hand sanitizer cream landed on his palm. Steve sighed and rubbed it in.

“See,” Tony said, with irrepressible glee, “you’re _learning_.”

. o .

There weren’t any sideshows, just some kind of big rodeo show in a closed-off arena. Tony, who couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes without becoming disagreeably bored, vetoed the rodeo show but took them on a journey towards the outskirts of the fair—and a tent that Steve presumed would contain all the splendors of a fun house.

It was pretty neat, Steve thought, although there weren’t any mirrors, just rows, and rows, and rows of chickens. Every kind of chicken imaginable—and a few he hadn’t imagined—were neatly caged along the walls, with little for-sale signs describing their heritage and their asking price.

“Steve,” Tony said, while Steve was busy looking over a pair of roosters. Steve looked up and blinked once in surprise, wondering if he had somehow fallen asleep on the endless cart ride and dreamed Tony Stark holding the fluffiest orange chicken he had ever seen. “Her name is _Cheetos_ ,” Tony said, his tone somewhere between anguished and overjoyed. “ _Cheetos_ ,” he whispered.

It was his _I have to have this_ voice. “Tony, we can’t keep her,” Steve said, gentle but firm. “Put her back.” The less contact, the better—and he shoulda been keeping an eye on Tony and not the roosters, since he knew who could cause more trouble in open spaces.

Tony continued to hold Cheetos, who clucked very, very quietly. It was hopelessly endearing. Steve swallowed his own knee-jerk agreement to say, “Tony, if we get a chicken, we have to leave. Don’t you want to ride the Ferris wheel?”

“They’ll hold her,” Tony said, counterarguments prepared. “Until we leave. Pick her up then.”

 _Oh, Tony_. “Tony,” Steve said, stepping closer. “Sweetheart. _No_.”

Tony continued to hold Cheetos to his chest. With each passing second, Steve firmed his resolve, accepted his rejection. He wanted to give in—but he had to stay firm. “We can’t make her happy,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Tony.”

It wasn’t merely an emotional matter. Most days, Steve and Tony worked upwards of twelve hours. Tony was lucky to feed and water _himself_. While _Steve_ , a man of routine, could take on an animal, there was a reason Tony Stark had programmed his bots to be as self-sufficient as possible. 

Pets, living, breathing beings, were too dependent on human care to survive on their own. And while Tony was so many good things—loyal, generous, good-humored, and kind—he had trouble with routines, with caring for another living being in its own unique way. Even his love for fellow human beings was often framed by what _he_ saw as the perfect demonstration of love.

“Okay,” Tony said suddenly, about-facing and walking off, Cheetos clucking in his hold. He returned hen-free, expression hard to read. “Onward?”

Steve drew him in for a hug first, insisting, “I love you.”

Tony sighed, but he did mutter, “You, too,” before pulling back, ears red. “Hungry? I’m _starving_.”

. o .

They went for a more savory bite to eat, starting with a pair of deep-fried mozzarella sticks (“Is everything deep-fried and on a stick now?” “Gosh, that almost sounds like a _complaint_ ”). Then it was corndogs, to keep up with the theme, except Tony ate two bites of his corndog before declaring himself full. 

While Steve endeavored to both finish the rest as quickly as possible _and_ savor it, Tony looked around, said suddenly, “Oh my God,” and carved a path through the crowd. 

Steve hastened to match his pace, exclaiming under his breath, “ _Tony_.”

To be fair, it _was_ a sight worth seeing. Seated at top of the biggest slide Steve had ever seen, Clint Barton howled, “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!” And then he launched himself—and his Captain America monkey, tragically seated up front—down the slide at breakneck speed.

They caught up with him as he stepped out of the slide, a grin like Christmas morning on his face. “I’m going again,” he announced, barely acknowledging Steve and Tony with a nod while Bruce waved from the sidelines. “You coming?” Clint asked him. Bruce shook his head, ducking behind his own green monkey. “Suit yourself,” Clint said, scampering back up the long ladder, burlap sack and patriotic monkey in tow.

Steve was—confused. “I—” he started, then stopped, because there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t reveal his ignorance on all matters regarding _slides_ in the past seven decades. Oh, sure, they’d _had_ them, back in his day, humble wooden things that evolved into huge, metal monsters; slides had always been one of the purest forms of joy a kid could know, like ice cream.

He’d thought the twenty-foot-tall jungle-gyms were impressive; this was something else. “They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to,” he muttered, as Clint _yahoo’_ ed his way to the bottom.

“I want to try,” Tony said, very unexpectedly. Clint looked over at him, then held out his burlap sack, tucking his monkey under the other arm.

“Be my guest,” he offered.

Tony frowned at the sack, at the implicit offer behind it, and nudged Steve towards it.

Well, Steve thought, grimly accepting the bag, if he couldn’t man up and do it for Tony, maybe the monkey _should_ be the new Captain America.

“Okay,” he said shortly.

 _What a world_ , he thought, staring down the colorful chutes from the top of the slide. He’d kind of expected Tony to _accompany_ him, but, well, that was Tony’s prerogative. _Steve_ had accepted the offer; _Steve_ was the one who had to either buckle down or chicken out.

With a last look at the starry heavens, just visible beyond the miasma of colorful lights, Steve balanced on the edge for one second longer, then let go.

He kind of expected it to hurt, but the gentle slopes made for an easy ride, and he was already missing the feeling of it as he skidded towards a stop with room to spare. Clint applauded; Bruce offered a weak little grin that meant a lot, coming from him. Steve looked at Tony, who raised both eyebrows, expression neutral.

Steve stood, burlap sack in hand, and declared, “I think she sings.”

. o .

Clint thundered up the steps, with Steve in more gradual pursuit, his plus-one hiding in his wake, pretending not to exist until they reached the top, where a pile of unclaimed burlap sacks awaited. 

Steve was perfectly fine with _one_ go-around, but he was hardly about to leave Tony out in the cold. The giddy, anticipatory joy hit him hard as he stepped out onto the platform at the top of the slide, passing Tony a burlap sack of his own. Clint waited patiently at the head of the slide, making a show of moving his whole body back and forth in a parody of something Steve did not understand.

“Barton, you’re gonna wear a hole through it,” Tony declared, arranging himself gingerly onto the slide. His expression was pained, like he had been coerced, and Steve almost offered to shove Clint down the slide and walk them back down, but:

“My Cap’s faster than your Cap,” Clint replied, and that just would not _do_ , oh, _no_. Steve didn’t know if higher reason evacuated on fairgrounds, or if he had reached his optimal deep-fried performance level, but with one smooth shove, he was off. Clint yelped when he saw his deceit, cursing as he took off in pursuit. 

It was hardly a high-speed chase—Steve slowed on the hills, _enjoying_ the ride—but Clint rocketed past him, anyway. Steve heard the tell-tale sound of something moving in the near-distance behind him, and then Tony nearly crashed into him, chute boundaries be damned.

Laughing all the way down, Steve kept a firm hold on Tony’s leg while Clint paraded around with his monkey high in the air, decreeing: “The true King!”

Tony dislodged a shoe and chucked it at Clint’s back, making him squawk. Steve rolled his eyes and stood up, hooking an arm around Tony’s back and pulling him up. Hair a bit ruffled, expression wide open with joy, Tony gripped his forearms and said, “That was fun.”

Steve nodded, easygoing-like. “You wanna go again?” he asked.

Tony blinked at him, then hobbled over to his shoe, shoving it on and pointing out, “This ride is for children.”

Shrugging, Steve said, “Yeah, that’s really stopping them.” Clint was dragging Bruce up the staircase, who was protesting the arrangement.

“Son of a bitch,” Tony said, storming after them.

. o .

Steve sat out most of the tomfoolery, watching over the dumb monkeys while his own tribe of mischievous primates jockeyed around for primacy on the slide. He could hear the rodeo show thundering in the distance, as well as the hundreds of little noises from every machine and human in the park area. He’d nearly tuned it all out when a shoulder bumped into his and Natasha sat on the grass area next to him. “Hey, stranger,” she said.

“Hey, stranger,” he replied, just as Bruce slipped and careened down the slide, stirring laughter from the peanut gallery up top.

Bruce struggled to his feet, not hurt but wounded, on an existential level. Clint came within an inch of crashing into the safety barrier, and Tony was fast on his heels, huffing out an annoyed breath as he said, “That _didn’t count_.”

“Yes it did,” Clint insisted, catching Bruce before he could trip and faceplant. “I said _go_.”

“You didn’t _count_ ,” Tony said stubbornly. 

Steve let them duke it out, blinking in surprise when Natasha flicked a folded-up knife onto his knee. “Where’d you get that?” he asked, amused.

“Ring toss.”

Nodding, Steve whistled as Clint and Tony both made to head up the stairs, indicating, “Getting late, fellas, we can stay here or do something else.”

“Do something else,” Bruce chimed in.

Seeing as his vote did not count in most diplomatic holdings, neither Clint nor Tony yielded for a long moment. “Guys,” Steve warned.

Tony said, “Fine.” It seemed to pain him to concede to Clint, but he did swipe the Captain America monkey from him, adding, “Get your _hands_ off of my _monkey_.”

Clint whined, “It’s _my_ monkey,” and gave chase. 

Bruce huddled with them, wringing his hands as he told Steve, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Steve nodded—it was far from _his_ bedtime, but Bruce was the most introverted person he had ever met. He grimaced at the idea of celebrating his own birthday; _birthday cards_ made him uncomfortable. The fact that he’d come at all was to be rewarded, and Steve offered, “What would _you_ like to do?”

Bruce winced, despising the spotlight, but he did offer, “No, you know me, I’m—” He looked between them, telling Natasha, “Really, whatever you want, that’s fine.”

“You fed? Watered?” Steve asked. Bruce winced again, shaking his head, indicating:

“No, hey, I’m fine, it’s fine. Let’s just—” There was a two-bodies-hitting-the-grass sound behind them, and Steve got to his feet just as Tony wheezed:

“Uncle, _Uncle_.”

Twice in one day, Steve thought, sorry for him even as he strode over, lifted Clint off his boyfriend with a very firm hand on his shirt, and ordered, “Knock it off.”

“Yeup, uh-huh,” Tony wheezed, straightening and grimacing. “Wow. Heh. Surprised I didn’t—” He gestured at the monkey which, despite taking a hard hit, had held up admirably well under the tackle play.

“Lemme down,” Clint whined. “I am not a criminal; I am a law-abiding citi—” Steve dropped him.

Tony snickered, chucking the monkey on top of Clint. There was a tightness around Tony’s eyes that Steve didn’t like. Tony tried to put his back to Steve without making it obvious that he was doing so, one hand rubbing at his chest, right over the reactor. If he’d hurt it—

But he hadn’t hurt it _bad_ , or he’d still be on the ground, Steve comforted himself. He had to respect Tony’s own boundaries, no matter how hard it could be. He’d hated being treated like glass and Tony was somehow even more headstrong than he was. “Why don’t we play a couple games?” Steve offered.

“Games?” Clint perked up, grabbing his monkey and declaring, “I’m in.”

. o .

Steve meant what he said about Bruce, which was how they ended up at some kind of fishing game. Everyone was a winner, and that was the kind of attitude Steve liked, when it came to team-bonding. As fun as _Monopoly_ night was, there were always unhappy faces by the end of the night. He was happy to shell out an ungodly amount of money for a few minutes of revelry for his teammates, and despite their personal dissonance, he did _like_ Bruce. He was compassionate and well-meaning, if painfully shy.

Even Tony couldn’t quite bring out the extrovert in Bruce, although he tried. Occasionally literally, snatching the fishing pole with a murmured, _I’ll just set you up—_ before Steve admonished, “ _Let him do it_.”

After five gripping moments of snapping mechanical jaws and zero progress, Tony fished Steve’s wallet out of his back pocket, flagged down the game attendant, and swung his own line out over the fake water to demonstrate the proper fishing technique. He snagged a frog and passed it along. The attendant announced, “Grand prize,” in such a flat tone Steve almost didn’t catch it.

Even Tony seemed surprised. “Really?” he asked. The attendant nodded, replaced the frog in the lineup, and turned to grab him a big sheep. “I should buy a lottery ticket,” Tony kidded. “What’s the chanciest game of chance they’ve got?” He was already turning away, sheep tucked under one arm.

Steve told him, “Tony, Bruce hasn’t—” and Bruce held up an identical sheep. “Oh. You caught the fish.”

Bruce shrugged, then stammered, “It, uh—well. Yeah.” He blushed in the semi-darkness. “Work smarter, not harder.”

. o .

Tony Stark was on a _roll_.

He’d sunk a basket, landed a ball in a bucket, and even won his own knife at the same ring toss Natasha had mentioned. At present, Clint and he were attempting to pop twenty-one darts’ worth of balloons, and their jubilant _yeah!!_ when they nailed a two-for-one hit was almost worth the pointed awareness that they had spent over a hundred dollars on _carnie games_.

“All right,” Steve said, as they accepted two fluffed-up fake donuts for their efforts. “I’m cuttin’ you off.”

“One more,” Tony insisted.

“No.”

“One more,” Tony said, turning to Clint, who high-fived him, donut around his arm.

Natasha informed Steve, “Oh, that’s a losing battle.”

Steve turned to her. She had the Hulk monkey under one arm and a smoothie in the other. She sipped her drink innocently. Steve sighed, not bothering to ask where she’d got it.

A balloon popped behind him, but Tony and Clint were gone. Bruce chimed in meekly, “They went that way.” He pointed.

Steve sighed, caught him by the back of the shirt, and propelled him along. “Let’s go.”

. o .

“C’mon, Cap,” Clint insisted, passing him a hard ball. “You gotta.”

“I don’t _gotta_ do anything,” Steve said, reflexively sinking the Skee-Ball into the 50-point pocket. “I said one more.”

“This is one more,” Tony pointed out, picking up another ball and rolling it into the 30-point pocket.

“Amateurs,” Clint replied, aiming for a pocket off to one side marked 100 and landing in the default catch-all loop instead. Tony snickered. Clint said, “Mulligan.”

“There’s no _Mulligans_ in _Skee-Ball_ ,” Tony said, handing Steve a ball and goading, “right?”

Steve sighed, rolled it up the lane, and sunk the 100-pointer Clint couldn’t make. “Right. We done yet?”

“Three more,” Tony said, giving himself two balls and Clint one. Clint zinged his up the lane; it sunk into the 50-pointer. “Two more.”

The end arrived sooner than later, and Steve said with some relief, “We done here?”

“Haven’t done the Ferris wheel,” Tony pointed out.

Steve sighed, but said, “All right. _Last_ one.”

. o .

Honestly, the Ferris wheel wasn’t so bad.

Not-so-bad-at-all.

The sheep was odd, but at least Clint, Nat, and Bruce had piled into a different car, giving Steve and Tony some much-needed alone time.

“Still can’t believe he gave away all those toys,” Steve mused, indicating Clint. “What’s the point in playing the game if you give up the prize?”

“Thrill of the hunt,” Tony said with a shrug. “He’s keeping the monkey, though.”

Steve sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“Aww.” Tony nudged his foot against Steve’s. “A little competition is good for the _soul_ , Steve.”

“I am not competing with a monkey,” Steve grumbled.

“Sounds like somebody doesn’t have a star-spangled plan—”

“Tony,” Steve pleaded, shutting his eyes. He’d enjoyed the shows at the time. Key words: _at the time_.

“Aww, Cap. You know it’s all in good fun.” He nudged Steve’s knee again, insisting, “Look, Steve. You can see the whole fair.”

Steve did look, and the view _was_ spectacular. But: “I don’t need the whole fair if I’ve got you,” he said seriously.

Tony nudged the sheep towards him, then said, “Well, now, you’re making me _blush_.” The tips of his ears were red, Steve noted, a hint of delight unspooling in his stomach. It was rare to see Tony out in public having a rollicking good time. 

Oh, Tony smiled a lot, but he rarely let his guard down, let people _see_ him. Not that other people _could_ see them; even with the bright lights, the mayhem and darkness were strong enough to block it out. But it was nice.

“Better than the aquarium,” Steve chimed in.

Tony gave a meaningful shudder. “That’s one mystery we can leave unsolved in the next lifetime.”

“Planning ahead?” Steve tipped Tony’s foot off his own, then rested his own foot on top of Tony’s.

Tony shrugged. “What can I say?” He smiled at the fairgrounds, like he was trying to hide his amusement, and added, “I like to stay one step ahead of the riff-raff.”

“They ain’t so bad,” Steve said. “Look—they got you a—teddy.” He picked up the sheep.

Tony said, “Pretty sure it’s a llama.”

“Llama,” Steve echoed. “Don’t see a lotta them.”

“No, not so much.” Tony reclaimed the teddy, setting it on his opposite side. “I’m just glad Bruce had fun. Have you ever seen that guy _smile_ so much?” he added, leaning in conspiratorially, like his whisper could be heard over all the rest of the noise.

Steve shook his head, then added, “Can’t say I have.” Bruce was a very, _very_ quiet kind of guy. Steve often worried Clint’s overenthusiastic approach overshadowed the real Bruce, but the real Bruce hated the limelight, almost as much as Clint and Tony loved competing for it. Natasha had inherited all the wisdom, Steve thought, tossing Tony a meaningful look as he rocked the cart once. “Tony,” he warned.

“Just checkin’,” Tony said lightly, grinning.

. o .

“This is indecent,” Steve declared, holding the stuffed llama under one arm while Tony shook his head fervently, balancing a plate full of indecency in one hand and holding up the other in the universal gesture for _hold-up_. Steve didn’t: “Who in their right mind puts _whipped cream_ on _waffles?_ ”

“No, shut up, it’s amazing,” Tony interrupted, taking another big bite before Steve could convince him otherwise.

“It’s indecent,” Steve insisted. “It’s not even a dessert!”

“Of course it is, it has whipped cream on it,” Tony said, covering his mouth with one hand and rolling his eyes. “You’re ornery after ten o’clock, you know that?”

“It’s eleven-thirty,” Steve said flatly.

Tony arched both eyebrows, then swallowed and lowered his hand to say, “Well. I’m not wrong.”

Steve sighed, then scowled when Tony offered him the plate. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You eat literal garbage.”

“Expired bread is not garbage.”

“‘Expired bread is not garbage,’” Tony mimicked, rolling his eyes and scooping up another decadent bite. “You ate the bag of popcorn Clint set on fire.”

“That was unpleasant,” Steve allowed.

Tony smirked, offering him the plate again.

“No,” Steve insisted firmly. “It is _eleven-thirty_ —”

“At night,” Tony added, pushing the plate towards him. “Honestly, this would be a perfectly acceptable midnight snack. Dessert-breakfast.” Shrugging, he said, “Suit yourself,” and finished it off. “You’re a coward.”

“How?” Steve demanded.

“You won’t eat superior waffles.”

“It’s been seven hours, Tony,” Steve pleaded. Bruce, Clint, and Natasha had taken a bow after the Ferris wheel, but Tony had insisted on _one_ more snack, and who was Steve to say no to him? A kill-joy, that was who, and Steve was _not_ a kill-joy. Just because he banned “Flamethrower Tag” didn’t mean he lacked a sense of fun.

“And it will be seven more before we’ve seen it all,” Tony said cheerfully, boosted up by his sugary snack. “I bet I could learn how to do that,” he added, nodding at a magician performing card tricks for an audience of admirers. “It’s just sleight of hand, right?”

. o .

Oh, God, they were going to be on the _news_ , Steve thought, doing his absolute damnedest both not to be seen and to remove Tony from the booth.

Thankfully for their night of revelry, the magician had recognized Tony as soon as Tony leaned across the barrier, nearly dropping his cards in surprise. He recovered easily and, with the slightest nod, invited Tony to do what he was itching to: vault over the low barricade and join the magician.

Tony had this weird knack for people, bordering on extrasensory (“It’s not ESP;” “What the hell is ESP?”)—he had an _ability_ to read people that surpassed mere charm. Tony Stark was hypnotically charismatic: he knew how to _handle_ people, how to _charm_ them, how to pull the strings behind any stranger’s back until they danced for him.

Steve would’ve felt bad for the magician, if he wasn’t clearly enjoying every moment of it, entertaining _yes, that’s really him_ Tony Stark, who had shifted from _any other fairgoer_ to _A-list celebrity_ in a heartbeat.

Steve couldn’t say if he was more exasperated or worried. As a rule, Tony and he never went out in public without some kind of backup or disguise. It was complex to occupy the roles of three people—Iron Man, Tony Stark, and just another New Yorker—but living in triplicates kept them safe. 

People looked at Captain America and Steve Rogers very differently; and they didn’t look at all at the guy who finally managed to snag Tony’s sleeve and encourage him to jump over the barrier as the crowd applauded the magician, mid-trick.

“God, Tony, you coulda been _hurt_ ,” Steve said, steering him as fast as he could away from the magician’s tent. “You coulda been—”

Tony tipped his stolen top hat over Steve’s head, then popped it once so it dropped over his eyes. “You worry so much,” he said, tone affectionate and wry. “It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s _not_ fine, Tony,” Steve insisted, peeling off the hat. Tony’s grin was so warm it was almost blinding, and for a moment, he almost gave in, almost said, _You know what? You’re right. That was great fun and nobody got hurt_. Instead, he sighed, and some of Tony’s mirth evaporated. “I just—I don’t want you to get hurt,” he articulated.

“I know.” Tony smoothed Steve’s jacket, then repeated, “I know.” With a shrug, he popped the hat on his own head, adding wryly, “Gotta _live_ a little. Can’t hide in the shadows forever.”

Steve pulled him into a firm hug, squishing the stupid llama between them. “I love you,” he said, like an affirmation.

Tony kissed his other cheek. “I love you more. Cotton candy?”

“How about,” Steve said, pulling back, letting Tony reclaim his llama, “we ride something?”

Tony rocked on his feet. “And _then_ cotton candy?”

“We’ll see.”

. o .

“Either you get on, or I will.”

Tony would, too. That was the stupid, wonderful thing about Tony Stark—he would hop on up and say, “I am invincible,” and promptly get gored by a bull.

“This ain’t even a ride,” Steve complained, waving wearily at the attendant, who whistled back.

“It sure looks like one,” Tony said. He joined the applauding, very drunken crowd, adding, “Remember, one hand up or it doesn’t count!”

“This bull doesn’t count; it’s got no damn legs!” Steve told him, dutifully putting one hand in the air and glaring at the bull—it _had_ to be mechanical, but some clever Joe had even given the damn thing a head with horns, giving it an air of semi-realism. 

Steve didn’t know what fun sitting on a fake bull in front of a bunch of strangers could be, but Tony seemed to think it was the best thing since sliced bread. _I am older than sliced bread_ , Steve had pointed out, more than once, and then the stupid bull tried to throw him off.

“Hercules is _killing it_!” the stupid attendant hollered, as the bull bucked and rolled in heaving waves.

“Hercules” couldn’t even unseat Steve, how bad could he be killing it? Steve thought, rolling his eyes as the bull whipped him around a few times. The crowd grew louder as the bull continued to heave in tighter circles, until the attendant said, “Oh, that bull’s _loco!_ ” and the bull started spinning as fast as the machine would let it. “Whoo-wie! Look at him go!”

For seventeen historic minutes, Steve rode the bull. He was almost unaware of the time passin’, after the first three-and-a-half minutes—the bull’s violent behavior finally calmed, alternating between rolls and the occasional spin that seemed to set the crowd off, no matter how repetitive it seemed to Steve. Try though he might, Hercules could not unseat Steve Rogers, and the lights finally flashed a couple times as the attendant roared, “Ladies and gents, we have a _winner!_ Give it up for _Hercules_!”

 _Hercules, my ass_. Steve clambered gratefully off the bull and stepped out of the ring. Then he got more beer dumped on him than he hoped to _encounter_ in his remaining lifespan, grimly accepting a hand towel from the laughing attendant to wipe his face. Drunken strangers continued to congratulate him as he gently but firmly pushed his way around them, finally catching up with Tony, who leaped at him, arms around his neck, proclaiming loudly over the music: “You broke the record!”

“Yippee-ki-yay,” Steve deadpanned, grimacing as somebody shoved a beer-soaked cowboy hat over his beer-soaked head. “Can we go home now?”

“Steve! You broke the bull!” Tony insisted, like it was they’d won the championship or something, which, _technically_ , they had.

“Tony, I have beer in my boots,” Steve pressed plaintively.

“You smell like it,” Tony agreed, kissing him on the cheek firmly and finally hopping down. “We should get corndogs! I’m really hungry. Kind of horny.”

“ _Tony_ —”

“You broke the bull!” Tony laughed.

. o .

The bull seemed in fine mechanical health as a woman in a bikini clambered on, stirring up the crowd. Steve said, “That’s—” and stopped himself from adding _indecent_ , because he respected women and their right to choose their clothing, even if the wolf whistles seemed _a bit much_. He steered Tony down the midway, refusing to even _look_ back, and somehow ended up with a second bucket of cookies in front of him.

And, all right, it was after midnight and the chill was setting in, but he smelled like the bottom of a beer barrel and had survived “Hercules” for seventeen minutes. He _deserved_ a damn bucket of cookies, he thought, fending Tony off as the latter swiped some from his bucket, anyway.

“My bull, my bucket,” he explained.

Tony nodded and stole another cookie, adding cheerfully, “That was really something. We should do that every time.”

“Must everything be sexual?” Steve mourned between cookies.

“How about _sensual_?” Tony asked, pulling off a suggestive body roll despite being seated. 

Steve’s ears went hot, suddenly understanding while the bull _undulated_ so damn much. He still ordered, “Stop that.”

Tony gave another roll just because, while Steve tugged the cowboy hat moodily over his own eyes before shoving another cookie in his mouth. “You’re absolutely impossible,” he told Tony.

“And you love me to pieces,” Tony said cheerfully.

. o .

Well, he did, which was why they were back to—“Why does this exist?” Steve asked, tired and exasperated. It was a two-hour drive home and he went to bed every night at two in the morning. He was an unhappy, beer-soaked camper, and they were shelling out more of _his_ hard-earned cash to launch fake frogs onto fake lily pads.

“Because it’s fun,” Tony said, bringing his tiny hammer down on the catapult and launching a floppy frog into the air. It landed with a loud splat in the water. “Damn.”

“Don’t curse,” Steve told him, even though there weren’t any kids around. “Let me try,” he added, taking the hammer and lining up another floppy frog.

To his absolute disappointment, it landed in the grass. “This game is rigged,” he deadpanned.

“This game is _not_ rigged,” Tony said with a full-toothed grin. “You’re just bad at it.”

“I am not bad at it,” Steve protested, reaching into the bucket for another floppy frog and planting it on the launcher. He swung down, harder than he meant, and the frog leapt into the air and landed on the farthest lily pad. “Rigged,” he insisted, as the carnie rang a _winner!_ bell and offered him a small stuffed frog for his trouble. “I do not want this,” Steve said, passing it back.

Tony said, “Don’t forget your hand sanitizer,” and squeezed a dollop onto his outstretched hand.

Steve sighed and rubbed it in. “Really interacts nicely with the beer, doesn’t it?”

. o .

“That was really, really fun,” Tony said, sitting in the front seat of his car. “Really fun, don’t you think?”

Steve looked at him, dapper as ever, and then down at his own sticky self, thoroughly disheveled from bull-riding and pendulum-swinging. “Fun,” he repeated.

“Yeah, you know, that thing you do, for enjoyment, voluntarily—”

“I know what fun is,” Steve grumbled, sifting through his wallet. Miraculously, his cash had been returned to him—somewhere between the last hot pretzel on a stick (“It’s superfluous;” “It’s innovative finger food”) and the grassy parking lot. It was still full, despite the late hour. Steve was quite sure the revelers would find a way to spend lots of money and get very intoxicated before three in the morning, when the whole thing shut down. At one a.m., he was thrilled to be sitting in a car.

“You smell like cheap beer,” Tony informed him.

Steve sighed, balancing the stupid llama on his lap and responding, “You won’t believe me if I told you how.”

Tony grinned and said, “That’s why I got it on video.”

“Awh, _God_ , Tony—”

. o .

Less than twenty minutes from the fair, they stopped at a hotel. 

“You planned this,” Steve accused, a single duffel bag between them. And a giant, boozy llama.

“Of course I did,” Tony said cheerfully, unlocking the door. “Go shower, you stink.”

The absolute nerve of some people, Steve thought, shaking his head. He had the courtesy to leave the en-suite door open for Tony to peruse the shared bag, retrieving what he wanted from it. He took almost fifteen minutes to scrub the sticky, sweet, syrupy smells from his skin, reveling in the aftermath as he tugged on fresh clothes.

Tony still smelled like the fair—the whole fair, and nothing but the fair: farmy animals, salty popcorn, a whiff of burlap and a hearty dose of _hand sanitizer_. Steve wrinkled his nose in involuntary disgust before Tony rolled his eyes and washed it all off in a decidedly longer shower.

He knew it was long because he laid himself out on top of the bed, reveling in being horizontal after an entire _day_ of being upright, and awoke with a start to Tony flopping down next to him. “Me, too,” Tony said, gusty and self-satisfied, practically purring as he rubbed his back against the sheets. “Oh, man, this is my favorite ride,” he breezed.

Yawning, too tired to be upset at being interrupted mid-sleep cycle, Steve grumbled back, “Yeah, just wait ‘til it spins.”

Tony bubbled with laughter, rolling over so he could plaster himself to Steve’s front, soft and warm and not even remotely smelling of booze. Steve had no qualms wrapping him in his arms, belatedly musing, “Tony, we forgot to switch the laundry.”

“Still hung up on that?”

“It’s Sunday,” Steve said, failing to stifle a yawn. “Sunday is laundry day, Tony.”

“No, Sunday is _fair_ day,” Tony replied. “And technically, it’s Monday, now, so your compulsive quest to clean is over.”

“Monday’s worse,” Steve grumbled. “Monday’s _work_.”

“As if Fury cares,” Tony huffed. “Now cuddle me, you sexy bull-riding bastard.”

“I do not see the appeal,” Steve said. “I do not—”

“Front-row seat to the greatest show on Earth,” Tony said, his voice warm and conspiratorial.

Steve said, “Think _I_ had the front-row seat.”

“Did you really just make that joke?”

“Did you really call bull-riding _sexy_?”

“What’s not _drool-worthy_ about a beautiful man—” Tony slinked upright, straddling him as Steve groaned and covered his face with a hand, complaining:

“Tony, no—”

“—straddling a powerful animal?”

“Tony, you’re makin’ it weird,” Steve whined.

Tony gave a body roll on top of him, but Steve’s “happily steady for two years” libido didn’t stir. Tony still kept it up for a few more seconds, just to embarrass him, his own face going steadily redder as he realized he had not merely made a fool but a _sensual_ fool of himself in front of a drunk crowd of people. Then, thankfully, Tony collapsed on top of him with a snicker.

“Can’t wait for Six Flags,” Tony breezed, making himself comfortable, reactor digging into Steve’s shirt but not badly. “Now _that’s_ an amusement park.”

“I’m going to bed now, Tony,” Steve said, shutting his eyes.

“Gotta stay one step ahead of the curve,” Tony reminded.

“ _Goodnight, Tony_.”

Tony kissed his cheek, thankfully devoid of any kind of sticky texture. “Goodnight, dearest.”

Heart warm, Steve murmured, “You better go to bed tonight.”

“Not gonna win that one,” Tony said cheerfully.

. o .

As the rising sun peered under the closed curtains, Steve picked up the quiet snoring next to him, a small smile ghosting across his face.

He turned and pressed a kiss to Tony’s temple, offering his gratitude.

 _Thanks for everything, pal_.

Oh, sure, it was a crazy life, dating Tony Stark. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.


End file.
